


Truth and Consequences

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Butt Plugs, Captivity, Chains, Extremely Dubious Consent, First Time, Getting Together, M/M, Piercings, Rescue Missions, Truth Serum, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Geralt's been arrested, convicted, and punished for a rather spurious crime.Jaskier comes to the rescue. Sort of.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 138
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Truth and Consequences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kameiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kameiko/gifts).



Over the years, Geralt has got himself into all kinds of trouble. 

Jaskier would know, because he's been there for some of it and heard stories about the rest - some of them are really only true in the same way that his songs are, but there's usually enough actual information there for him to get the gist. Usually, it's a case of _witcher seeks monster; gory battle ensues; witcher emerges victorious; plucky but brilliant bard immortalises the event in song_ , just with a detour here and there for someone getting punched in the spleen. He's not even totally sure where you'd find a spleen, but he's very sure Geralt's been punched in his. Probably several times. 

Geralt's been in all kinds of trouble, but this time might just have been the worst. Worse than wyrm guts and troll vomit and that time they got lost in the swamp that smelled like week-old sardines, which Jaskier recalls in surprisingly vivid detail despite that event very much not being one of the thrilling quests that have turned up in his songbook. Somehow he'd been fairly sure that the average troubadour-admiring paying customer would _not_ have too much interest in the three days they spent slogging through a bog trying desperately not to get mud on his lute while Geralt swore creatively at the world in general and him in particular, though how exactly it was his fault he's still not quite sure. If anything it was the fault of the farmer who'd hired them; he'd thought maybe an ogre or something similarly sinister had been carrying his cows away to snack on but actually? It turned out his missing milkers just like the rotting fish smell of the swamp about four hundred thousand times more than humans did. And yes, fine, so maybe they'd led the cows back out, mission accomplished, payment secured, but his doublet had smelled faintly like a fishmonger's bins for the rest of the month. 

But there were no fish guts involved this time. This time, it was one of those _people are the real monsters_ kinds of things that Jaskier really hates because actually, he quite likes people. He wouldn't have much of an audience without them because there's only so many times you can play a lute by a campfire with a grumpy witcher glaring at you like he's about to burn your instrument before you really start longing for appreciation. He'd just strongly prefer that _monsters_ were the real monsters, not witcher-hating barons with far too much time on their hands. 

The appalling excuse for nobility in question was Baron Boris of Boreland, an obscure town at the arse end of nowhere that Jaskier had been referring to as _Boringland_ for the best part of the last ten years on account of its utter lack of any entertaining feature. The Barons before the current incumbent had outlawed the consumption of alcohol, made sex out of wedlock a hanging offence and ruled that any and all visitors to the area must register their names and the purpose of their visit with the town hall clerk or risk swift and severe punishment in line with Borelander law. Jaskier had never actually found out what _severe punishment_ actually entailed, but that was possibly because it seemed to change according to the Baron's whims. That and he'd never felt inclined to subject himself to it personally. When he'd consumed alcohol while having unmarried sex without registering, he'd always made sure to be gone before anyone really noticed he was there, except perhaps for the person he'd been having said unmarried sex with.

Frankly, as crap as Boreland's laws sounded, and as crap as the Baron's "punishments" seemed, it all also sounded like a number of the nobles he'd met over the years. He supposed that was at least part of why he'd all but abandoned his own birthright and fucked off to sing songs instead. As far as he could tell, the only attractive feature of being the Viscount de Lettenhove was probably money, and the responsibilities that went with it? No thank you.

He was in the next town over, studiously avoiding the least fun town he'd ever encountered, which was somewhat odd for a place so rich from its variety of medicinal potion-making - then again, they could _make_ the potions in Boreland, but selling or consuming them on Boreland ground without a permit was against yet another law. He was sitting in the tavern, definitely _not_ in Boreland, when he overheard a slightly odd rumour. According to the mostly-drunk tanner, who'd heard it from the fletcher who'd heard it from the blacksmith who'd heard it from his daughter whose fiancé worked in the castle in Boreland, the Boring Baron had a witcher for a prisoner. According to the tanner's sister's lover's second cousin twice removed or whatever, the witcher was a big man with yellow eyes and silver hair and when a fight with an ogre or a troll or something else that sounded equally likely to bash a person's brain in without a second thought and had strayed onto the Baron's lands...well, the conceited arse had had the witcher clapped in irons. 

"Did they maybe happen to say what his name was?" Jaskier asked as he sidled closer. The bartender frowned at him. So did the garrulous, somewhat drunken tanner. "The witcher, I mean. I don't suppose they called him Geralt?"

"What, like the Butcher of Blaviken?" the tanner replied. He snorted. "I think Tilly might've said if he was famous." Then he went back to his drink and remained entirely unreceptive to further questioning. Jaskier supposed he should have found that reassuring: Geralt's name was fairly well known, thanks in no small part to Jaskier's snazzy songwriting, so chances were excellent that Tilly the blacksmith's daughter would have mentioned it if the Baron's imprisoned witcher was _his_ witcher. It really wasn't reassuring, though, because as he sat back down at his table he just couldn't shake off the thought that it sounded exactly like the sort of trouble that frequently befell Geralt. He'd had a talent for it even before they'd met.

He tried telling himself it was fine and even if it turned out to be Geralt, he'd got himself out of much worse situations without the intervention of any meddling minstrels. He tried telling himself it probably wasn't Geralt anyway, just some other poor yellow-eyed, silver-haired witcher - surely there had to be a few of them about, even if they couldn't make any more. But the problem was, apparently, that he'd already made up his mind to ride over to the dullest town in creation and save whoever it was from their ridiculous incarceration, whether it was Geralt or not. Besides, it if wasn't Geralt, they might actually thank him, and there was a certain allure to having a witcher of the non-Geralt persuasion owe him a favour. You really never knew when that sort of thing might come in handy. 

He didn't set off straight away. Geralt was the one with the history of going off half-cocked, like gallivanting off all tired and hungry and possibly getting set upon by bandits in the middle of the night ever did anyone any good and besides which, it wasn't as if he was going to turn up in Boreland and storm the Baron's castle using only a newly-restrung lute and his debonair good looks. It also might not have helped matters that he was at least as drunk as the storytelling tanner was and while technically it was consumption of alcohol on the Baron's lands that was against the law in Boreland, it wouldn't be like he could prove he'd done the drinking in the next town over. He did, however, set off first thing after breakfast the following morning, full of scrambled eggs as well as good intentions. 

It actually wasn't very far, possibly because once upon a time both sides of the river had been one town and not two different ones. Local stories said one of the early Barons had had twin sons and they'd ruled together until something something drunken adultery and they'd split the lands in two so they didn't have to see each other. Jaskier supposed that made a bit more sense of Boreland's laws, at least if they were all about one brother fancying the other's wife and getting his leg over in a drunken manner, and explained the fact that one of Boreland's other nonsense laws was about ownership of mirrors. But in any case, there was a sign exactly halfway across the bridge proclaiming entry to the lands of the Baron of Boreland. Given half the town went over the river for their evening entertainments and took their relative riches with them, Jaskier had sworn he'd never return, yet there he was. 

He rode into town and went straight to the town hall clerk to register his visit and under the heading of _Purpose of Visit_ he wrote down _Freeing a friend from unjust incarceration_. The clerk eyed him, and Jaskier raised his eyebrows as if challenging her to say something, but he was fairly sure she wouldn't - the Boreland laws were basically just that you had to register, not that that registration must make sense, as some of the entries above his proved. Unless, of course, _sausage delivery for Lady Anne_ wasn't the euphemism it sounded like. He actually didn't want to know because if it turned out to be literal the disappointment would have been quite bitter.

From the town hall he made his way directly to the castle, through the streets with all their plumes of coloured potion smoke emerging from the chimneys. It was up on the top of a hill overlooking the town and given some of the palatial places Jaskier had seen over the years, it was really quite small - basically just a tower with an extremely winding path up the steep incline that made his rather unhappy horse wheeze loudly on its way. And, when he got to the top, he dismounted with a flourish in front of two thoroughly unimpressed guards standing at the gate. 

"I'm here to see the Baron," Jaskier said. 

"The Baron doesn't like bards," the first guard replied. 

"What if I'm not a bard?"

"You look like a bard," the second guard replied. He pointed. "On account of the lute."

"So what if I'm not _only_ a bard?"

"What, you're a king in a cunning disguise?"

"Well, no," Jaskier said. "But if you're going to be like that about it, I'm definitely the heir of the Viscount de Lettenhove."

The guards shared a look. They frowned at him and then muttered, putting their heads together, then frowned at him again. 

"You're really a viscount?" the second guard asked. 

"Not until the current one snuffs it, no, So maybe more like a viscount in waiting."

They looked at each other again. They muttered to each other again. Then they turned back to him again. 

"Fine, we'll ask," guard #1 said, then he cracked the door open just far enough to slip inside. Jaskier waited somewhat impatiently by the side of his still-breathless steed, eyeballed by guard #2. 

"If you're going to stare, I could juggle or do a little dance..." Jaskier said, and the guard gave him the kind of half-disgusted look that said he wasn't the sort who'd enjoy a bit of a singsong, either. Mercifully, however, his companion returned with relative speed and grimaced as he held the door open behind him. 

"The Baron says he'll see you," he said, and Jaskier smiled pleasantly as he sauntered in past them, quite pleased with himself for refraining from saying _I told you so_. On the other hand, Guard #2 seemed like the sort of pedant who might point out that he hadn't actually told them so in so many words, so perhaps that was for the best. 

"So, where am I going?" Jaskier asked instead. "Straight down the hall to the other pair of grimacing guards? Wincing watchmen? Scowling sentries?" The two guards he'd been speaking with, as if to make his point, both scowled. "I'll take that as a yes, then," he said, and he wandered on, but actually the next pair didn't seem even half as dour. Then again, he supposed standing outside in the cold wearing a brigandine that probably weighed as much as they did wouldn't do very much for anyone's mood. The second set also seemed to rest their lovely pointy pikes against the doorframe and take turns perching on the end of a nearby cabinet when no one was looking, Jaskier thought, if the telltale sets of scratches and worn-off varnish were anything to go by. Exactly when he'd turned into a detective he wasn't sure, but he was very sure it was something to do with Geralt.

They waved him in past a set of double doors and just when he was thinking it had all been wonderfully smooth seas and sunshine, so far so good, what he saw inside the next room removed all wind from his sails in an extremely thorough way. 

The Baron of Boreland was an average-looking man in every possible manner. He was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, fair nor ugly, with very standard mid-brown hair in a very standard cut. He was wearing nice enough clothes but nothing too extravagant and you really wouldn't have known that Boreland was one of the richest towns for miles if all you had to judge it on was good old Baron Boris. He was, however, sitting on a throne. An actual throne, not just a normalish chair he was calling one: it was wide and tall-backed with shiny gold inlay and a big white stone that was set into the wood just above his head, and more than that, it was on a dais up three big steps from the rest of the room that was covered with a big plush rug. Honestly, it looked like he'd nabbed the chair and the rug from some nearby royal palace and decided sod it, he was going to get some use out of them even if it did look sort of like a stage production. Or maybe he just had a thing for nice carpeting.

That really wasn't the disconcerting part, though. What _was_ disconcerting was the fact Jaskier had expected the imprisoned witcher to be, well, _imprisoned_ , and the Baron of Boreland's odd throne room really didn't strike him as much of a prison. And actually, that would also have been fine but for, well, fuck, everything else about the situation. 

It was Geralt, that much was immediately obvious, but there was something very wrong with him. His usual unimpressed scowl was entirely absent from his face, for a start - he looked...blank. And the other thing, of course, was that he was stark bollock naked and kneeling on the throne room's stone floor, _and_ it didn't stop there. His hair was neatly braided to keep it out of the way, which wasn't like him at all, and there was a thick leather collar strapped around his neck that kept his chin pushed up high - Jaskier had the impression from his glassy, vacant stare that it was the only thing keeping his head from lolling down toward his chest. Then there was a thick piece of wood about two feet long wedged between his knees on the floor to keep them parted and his hands were shackled behind his back, with a short chain leading from them to a ring hammered into the floor. And to keep him perilously, uncomfortably upright instead of listing back toward the chain holding his hands, they'd come up with another plan; there was a thick silver ring in the tip of Geralt's flaccid cock, just peeking out from underneath his foreskin, and another chain ran down from that to a bolt in the floor in front of him. The chain was fine and shiny and looked like it might break with relative ease, but Jaskier had come across more than one deceptively strong chain in his life; he'd have bet substantially more cash than he had in his possession that the one currently connecting Geralt's manhood to the ground was stronger than it looked. The little silver rings through his nipples, though, seemed to serve absolutely no purpose at all that wasn't purely decorative. 

"Is this how you treat your prisoners in Boreland, Baron?" Jaskier asked, as he gestured at the obviously drugged Geralt. Fucking potions - though he supposed the Baron had a licence.

"Sometimes," the Baron replied. He drummed his fingers on the arms of his ridiculously grandiose throne as he looked down nonchalantly at Jaskier. "We punish criminals here."

"And he's a criminal, is he?"

"Yes."

"What exactly did he do?"

The Baron shrugged. "Does it matter?" he said. "He was tried and found guilty. This is his punishment." He leaned forward, elbows to knees, hands clasped, and eyed Jaskier closely. "Is the witcher what you came to talk about?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll be disappointed. Even were you actually the Viscount de Lettenhove, you'd have no jurisdiction here."

"Well, it's not really a question of jurisdiction."

"So tell me what it is."

Jaskier made a face. "Basic human decency?" he said.

The Baron laughed so suddenly and loudly that it echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling and made Jaskier flinch. "You don't think this is decent treatment?" he asked, and he gestured broadly at Geralt, who still hadn't moved a muscle since Jaskier's arrival. Jaskier frowned and went closer to him, careful of his ludicrous chains, and tilted his chin up a little higher with one hand; Geralt looked at him but it was like he couldn't see him. It was a lot like he wasn't really seeing anything at all, let alone him. 

"Well, you've drugged him," Jaskier said. 

"Yes. He wasn't exactly behaving himself."

Jaskier pointed at the piercings with one vague, wagging forefinger. "And I don't remember _those_ being there before." 

"Yes. I thought they suited him."

"And you don't see anything, you know. Wrong with that?"

"Why should I? Boreland law entitles me to punish prisoners however I see fit. I can do whatever I like until he's served his allotted time." He grimaced briefly. " _Almost_ whatever I like, at least."

Jaskier sighed. He rubbed his face. "Look, we've got to be able to come to an arrangement," he said. 

"Are you offering to pay his fine?"

Given that Jaskier knew just how steep fines were in Boreland, and he knew just how little coin he had to hand at present, all he could say to that was, "Well, no. That wasn't quite what I meant."

"Then are you offering to take his place?"

Jaskier made another face. It actually wasn't a huge stretch to imagine their roles reversed, to be honest, considering the trouble he'd got himself into over the years was almost as extensive as Geralt's. In fact, it was very easy indeed to imagine himself saying the wrong thing to the wrong person and ending up drugged up to the eyeballs and chained to the floor by his cock in just such a manner. Frankly, it wouldn't even have been the fifth worst outcome of his general misadventures, but that still didn't mean he was planning to offer himself up for it, Geralt or no Geralt. 

"That's not exactly what I had in mind, either."

"Then what were you suggesting?"

Jaskier threw up his hands. "I don't know!" he said. "But there's got to be something we can do to lighten his sentence. How long does he have left?"

The Baron sat back again and resumed drumming his fingers. "Nine weeks," he said. "I forget. Maybe ten." 

Jaskier winced. "And is there anything we could do to persuade you to just...let him go?"

The Baron stroked his chin, like he was in possession of a pantomime villain's beard more than a very neatly clean-shaven chin indeed, as he apparently considered this. As his eyes narrowed and his smile widened, Jaskier couldn't help but feel uneasy because frankly, it wasn't a nice smile. It wasn't a _kittens and rainbows and a good bottle of wine_ smile. It was a _so you think things can't get worse? let me prove you wrong!_ smile, and for a second Jaskier was very nearly convinced he was going to find out he'd just broken some kind of Borelander law about bribing officials or stepping on the wrong paving stone on the wrong day of the month and he'd end up stripped off and drugged up and sporting fetching little nipple rings that perfectly matched Geralt's before the day was out. He shifted awkwardly, trying to resist the urge to give his nipples a comforting rub. 

"So, the two of you know each other," the Baron said. "From outside my town."

"Yes," Jaskier replied. "I thought that was rather obvious from the fact I know he didn't used to have a whatsit in his youknowwhat." He waved in the direction of Geralt's pierced cock and the Baron's smile widened again. 

"Would you say you have a _pre-existing relationship_?" he asked. 

Jaskier frowned. "Yes?" he replied, not entirely sure he knew or liked where this was going. 

"Would you be willing to swear to that?"

"I don't see why not, it being the truth."

The Baron's smile finally widened into a grin and he leaned his head against the throne's high back, evidently pleased with himself. "Excellent!" he said. "Then if you fuck him for me, I'll consider his sentence complete."

Jaskier's stomach performed an interesting feat of acrobatics. "I don't understand," he said.

"Well, I can't do it - that would be against the law. But if you have--"

He sighed. "--a pre-existing relationship?"

The Baron nodded. "Precisely. Then the law recognises that intercourse between the two of you is perfectly legal." 

Jaskier looked at the man, who was sitting there on his ridiculous throne seeming exceptionally pleased with himself. He looked down at Geralt, who was still kneeling there mute and chained and motionless except for the shift of his chest as he breathed. And he asked himself, really, how bad could it be? It was only sex, after all, albeit in front of a voyeuristic nobleman with a set of very arbitrary-seeming laws he apparently followed to the letter, and it wasn't like he didn't know they'd both done some rather ill-advised things in front of various audiences. Yes, so those ill-advised things hadn't been _together_ , and no, so it didn't seem like Geralt was particularly capable of engaging with the process at present, but Jaskier thought that second part might actually be a blessing in disguise. If what they'd given him was what he thought it was, he wouldn't remember a single thing that had happened while he was under its influence. Jaskier could just get it over with and save him nine or ten weeks of naked kneeling and then never speak of it again. He could do that. It wasn't like he'd write a song about it and go singing all over the northern kingdoms, or anywhere else for that matter. 

"Fine," he said, before he could think better of it and start planning some kind of daring midnight jailbreak. "Fine, let's do that." And, before he could think better of not thinking better of it, the Baron had clapped his hands and a servant had appeared, carrying a shiny silver tray. There were three small glasses sitting on it next to a cut glass decanter and once the servant - the blacksmith's fiancé? who knew - had set the tray down on a small table and vacated the room, the Baron filled all three glasses almost to the brim. He drank one himself, all in one go, then set the empty glass back down and gestured to the other two. 

"Is that...?" Jaskier asked. 

"To make sure we all tell the truth," the Baron replied. "Drink, so we can make this official."

Jaskier supposed there really wasn't much else for it and he'd already come this far and besides which, what could it possibly hurt? So he took a glass and he threw it back and really, he didn't feel any different once he had. He just knew that when the Baron said, "So, just to confirm...you're the Viscount's heir?" all he could think to say was, "Yes." And when the Baron said, "And the two of you are acquainted?" all he could say was, "Yes, we've known each other for years. Honestly, sometimes I think he's the only one who can stand me for more than forty minutes at a time." Then he frowned and said, "You know, that's not normally something I say outside my head." 

The Baron nodded, apparently acquainted with that phenomenon himself, as Jaskier had a feeling most of the people in Boreland were. The sooner they were out of the general vicinity the better.

"Give him the other glass," the Baron said. "Let's get this over with so you can get on with it." 

So, Jaskier took the third glass and conveyed it to where Geralt was kneeling. He tilted up Geralt's chin just a fraction - he didn't seem to mind that it chafed against the leather collar - and put the glass to his lips. It wasn't the most elegant of operations but he did eventually manage to get the majority of the contents of the glass into Geralt's mouth with only minor spillage. And as he was licking the truth serum that he'd just swiped from Geralt's chin off his fingertips, Geralt's eyes began to focus. Slowly, like he'd almost forgotten how to, he looked at him. Jaskier's insides suddenly felt worryingly tight. 

"Witcher," the Baron said. "Can you confirm that you know this man?"

Geralt looked at the Baron, then at the glass that was still in Jaskier's hands, then at Jaskier himself. 

"Yes," he said, his voice all rough and scratchy-sounding, like Jaskier's was the morning after a particularly strenuous concert, or a particularly strenuous _something else_. He cleared his throat. "Yes. I know him."

"What's his name?"

"Jaskier." 

"His real name."

"I don't know. Something de Lettenhove, he doesn't use his real name." 

"And you are?"

He frowned at Jaskier, like his brain still wasn't remotely clear, like he wasn't sure if this was real or in his head. "Geralt of Rivia," he said. 

Jaskier looked away, up at the Baron, not just so he didn't have to look at Geralt looking at him, but that did add to the allure. "Could you just confirm your part of the deal, too?"

The Baron smiled not quite pleasantly. "Of course," he said. "My name is Boris, Baron of Boreland, and once you and your witcher friend have copulated on my throne room floor, you can by all means take him away to anywhere your heart desires." He raised his eyebrows. "Now, shall we begin?"

Jaskier made a face, which was something he was starting to be exceptionally good at. He really didn't have much of a choice, he supposed, considering he'd already agreed to it and nine or ten weeks of _this_ sounded terrible. He tried to imagine leaving Geralt there, maybe hiring a bunch of thugs to break him out, maybe finding Yennefer and persuading her to do the deed, but...there was a much more expedient solution.

"Well, it's better than me trying to break him out in the dead of night and us both ending up convicted," he said, totally unable to stop himself. "I'm about as sneaky as a cockerel at dawn." And maybe Geralt might usually have said something about him definitely being some kind of cock, but the only response he got was the Baron sighing impatiently. He supposed at least that meant Geralt still wasn't entirely with it, despite the dose of truth serum that had seemed to disturb his otherwise drugged state, which he couldn't help but think was a very good thing indeed. 

Still, he did begin, just like he'd been asked to and just like he'd agreed to, because he didn't have the coin to hire a single thug, let alone a bunch of them, and who knew where to find Yennefer of Vengerberg at any given moment? Probably not in Vengerberg, but that didn't exactly narrow it down. So, he began. He still had his lute slung over his back so he took that off and leaned it up against a wall. Then he went back across the room to Geralt. 

"Is there anything specific I'm supposed to do?" he asked the Baron, though his eyes were very much on Geralt kneeling there in front of him. 

"Oh, whatever comes to mind," the Baron replied, with a wave of his hand, what he probably thought was magnanimously. "I assume you don't need too much direction?" 

"Not really," Jaskier admitted. "This isn't exactly the first time I've considered it." He made a face as he knelt down in front of Geralt. He _really_ hadn't meant to say that, even if it was true, though the Baron didn't seem too perturbed by the notion anyway. Fortunately, his quick mouth hadn't decided to go into details about sleepless nights with his hand shoved down his trousers like an oversexed teen, or the time or two or three or four that he'd imagined Geralt's face on someone else in bed. No one needed to know about that. Honestly, he liked to tell himself it hadn't happened, too.

What he did first once he was kneeling on the floor was take hold of the chain that led from the floor to Geralt's cock; he pulled it tight against the floor bolt to give as much slack as possible by the other end and then, carefully, he unhooked the end from the ring in Geralt's rather impressive genitalia and tossed the loose chain down onto the floor. He'd seen him naked before, of course - Geralt didn't have any particular shyness about any part of his anatomy that Jaskier was aware of and Jaskier had never been prudish (or indeed polite) enough to feel like he had to avert his eyes demurely, but he'd definitely never touched him there before, like he had to in order to free him from the chain. His fingertips brushed the tip of his cock, the part right by the ring that would normally have been covered by his foreskin. Geralt took a sharp little breath when he did and Jaskier grimaced. 

"Cold hands?" Jaskier asked. 

"Cold hands," Geralt agreed, though it was disconcertingly like he was barely there and quite a lot like it was the Baron's truth serum doing the talking instead of him. Still, as Jaskier stood up, he started blowing on his hands to warm them. 

He stepped around behind him and then he knelt again. The shackles at Geralt's wrists actually opened very easily; all he had to do was pull out a bolt and the metal basically fell apart in his hands, dropped, and clanked against the floor before he could catch them. Geralt didn't flinch. Then Jaskier shuffled closer, gave Geralt's chafed wrists a rub he told himself was meant to help the circulation, then nudged him down to rest on his forearms as well as his knees. He huffed out a breath as Geralt's cheeks pulled slightly apart; he could see something between them and he ran the newly-warmed fingers of one hand down his cleft to get a grip on it and ease it back.Hhe'd got a short, thick plug inside him, made of well-oiled stone that had been pushed into his arse, and Jaskier held it up in the rather wan light as he looked at the Baron. 

"So this isn't against the law?" he asked. 

"Surprisingly, no," the Baron replied. 

"And not just because you make the law?"

"Actually, I just follow it," the Baron replied. 

Jaskier sensed this was going to be an infuriating conversation if he decided to continue it, so he decided that he'd stop it there instead. Instead, he put the plug down on its base on the floor and said, "Do you have any--" and before he could finish the sentence the Baron had taken a bottle from the table and thrown it at him. _At_ him, not _to_ him, but he still managed to catch it, by some sort of miracle because he couldn't say he'd ever been particularly gifted in that department. When he looked down it was almost full of oil, which was exactly what he'd been about to ask for - he wasn't entirely surprised, though, because it really didn't take a clairvoyant to see what he had in mind. 

He unstoppered the bottle and before he did much of anything else, he set it aside and unlaced his trousers. He knew it was a terrible idea, though it was absolutely the only idea he had - Geralt was barely even conscious and there was a somewhat twisted onlooker sitting only a few feet away and although he really hadn't lied, possibly because he couldn't lie at present, he knew it was a terrible idea. If pushed, he'd probably have admitted that he'd found Geralt irritatingly attractive since the moment they'd met - Jaskier had never really found it difficult to find someone attractive, though, so that wasn't particularly special. The problem was that the more time they'd spent together, the more attractive he'd found him, until it actually wasn't uncommon for him to lie awake at night and have a bit of a crafty wank with a fantasy of Geralt in his head. He liked the way his lower back curved into his arse and the fact his chest hair wasn't the same colour as the hair on his head and how his jaw tensed when he got annoyed, and he'd thought about a lot of things he'd like to do, some of which he'd done with other people over the years. This, though, wasn't quite what he'd imagined. He'd imagined Geralt wanting it, too.

Frustratingly, when he pushed his trousers down over his hips, Jaskier found his cock was already half hard. He sighed at himself and gave it a momentary, perfunctory stroke - it really didn't take much effort to get it up all the way, though he'd never really had that kind of problem so he'd almost have been surprised to have it then. Then he parted Geralt's cheeks with the heels of his hands and felt his ridiculous cock fill up even harder as he rubbed one thumb over Geralt's still faintly oily rim. He slicked his fingers until oil was nearly dripping down his wrist and then rubbed them there again, making Geralt's rim shine with it and his own chest feel tight. And when he pressed his fingertips against him, when he pushed his forefinger inside, bit by bit, knuckle by knuckle, he could feel Geralt's hole twitching tight again and again. Jaskier wasn't entirely sure if that meant it felt good or if he knew what kind of violation this actually was. 

He picked up the plug next. He wasn't really sure why he did it except it just seemed to occur to him at the time and he poured some more oil over it, held the base firmly and pressed its tip to Geralt's hole. He pushed it in, past the thicker part that opened him up to the slim stem near the base, until his fingertips were wedged between the stone and Geralt's arse. He pulled it out. He pushed it back in. He fucked him with it, slowly, feeling his own cock leaking, dripping precome onto the throne room floor like some kind of pervert. Then he pushed it in and he left it there, just for a moment; he reached forward between Geralt's thighs, his knees still kept apart by the wooden bar, and though he almost didn't want to know...he wrapped his hand around Geralt's cock. He was hard. His cock was stiff and Jaskier couldn't help but groan as he touched the damp, pierced tip. He'd have liked to have sucked it, let the ring clack against his teeth as he teased the holes with the tip of his tongue, but he knew he should really get it over with. He slicked himself instead, and then pulled the plug back out again. He pressed the tip of his cock to Geralt's loosened hole. 

When he pushed in, it wasn't easy. Geralt was tight, even despite Jaskier's antics with the plug, and Jaskier honestly couldn't have said whether it was just the tightness or the fact that he was fucking Geralt of all people in the world that made his movements awkward and his face feel far too hot. He was still wearing his doublet and the shirt underneath kept falling down and getting in the way until he shoved it up under his top rather uncomfortably. He could see his cock pushing into Geralt. He spread Geralt's cheeks wide with both his hands so he could watch how his rim stretched to take him in, and he bit his lip as he sunk in just that last half inch so his hips were flush to Geralt's arse. He gave it a squeeze, then he moved his hands to Geralt's hips, up to his waist, framing it, feeling it shift with Geralt's breath. His breath was almost as short as Jaskier's. And, as he held Geralt by the waist, as he rocked his hips forward, he eased him back against him, too. He pushed in deep with a breathy groan. 

There was a moment as he was fucking him for the Baron's amusement when he almost asked a question. Geralt was just as full of truth serum as Jaskier was and there was a good chance that he'd reply, and Jaskier knew that if he ever wanted a straight answer from him about anything at all then that was probably the time. Unless he stole a vial of serum for his later personal use, which he suspected warranted some kind of ridiculous punishment itself. There were a lot of things he'd have liked to have asked, like what the process really was to get turned into a witcher, and what the weirdest thing he'd ever been paid to do had been, and whether or not he actually liked him or just didn't mind if he tagged along sometimes. He'd have liked to have asked him if he thought they were friends. He'd have liked to have asked him if he really believed witchers couldn't feel things the way that other people did, and if he loved Yennefer, and if he'd ever thought about having sex with him. He probably hadn't, but stranger things had happened...but he really didn't think his ego could stand it if Geralt told him no. 

So, he fucked him. He held him firmly by the waist and he told himself that actually, this was one thing he was really quite good at, and he fucked him nice and deep and hard. He might have got a bit sweaty, yes, but he supposed at least he gave the Baron a good show and Geralt's hole got tighter and tighter around him, squeezing him, rocking back against him, pushing back against him until Jaskier's knees were almost skidding backwards with every thrust. Geralt was moving with him, which he hadn't expected, the muscles in his back and shoulders shifting, thighs tense, his head hanging forward awkwardly against the leather collar so Jaskier leaned forward, pushed in deep and took it off for him. While he was there, he decided why not; he twisted Geralt's braided hair around his palm and pulled a little, and Geralt arched his back and pushed back hard. And then, fuck, Geralt's hole spasmed around him, Geralt bucked back against him, Geralt fucking _moaned_ , and it didn't take a sparkling genius to know he'd just come all over the floor. Knowing that apparently did something funny to Jaskier's brain because the next thing he knew he'd clenched his jaw so tight it felt like he wouldn't talk for a week and shoved into him with all the force that he could muster and his cock pulsed as he came inside him, all weak-kneed and heaving-chested. He really hadn't meant to do that - he'd meant to pull out and maybe finish on the floor - but the Baron didn't seem to mind. Of course, when Jaskier turned his head to look at the man, he'd been stroking himself over his breeches and a wet spot had spread over his groin. He looked away again quickly. And that was that, job done. 

Afterwards, the Baron was as good at his truth serum-verified word: he let Jaskier take Geralt away with him. Jaskier eased his cock back out, wiped them both off with his own damned shirt and straightened out his clothes, but Geralt was still a little too on the stoned side to be able to dress himself. It took rather longer than Jaskier would have liked to put him back into his clothes and gather up his weapons and lead him down the ridiculous hill back into town, and not just because his horse wasn't in a hurry. It took longer still for the two of them to ride back across the river to the much less awful town and back to Jaskier's rented room above the tavern. He put Geralt to bed and he nodded off in a chair by the window. And, in the morning, when he woke, Geralt was eyeing him from the bed. His shirt was off, and Jaskier could see the shine of the two little silver rings that pierced both his nipples. If nothing else, he supposed he had to give the Baron credit for his good taste in that direction - they really did look good on him.

"I'm going to guess you have questions," Jaskier said, as he stretched; the night dozing on the less than comfortable armchair had produced a crick in his neck to go with his bruised-feeling knees. He raised his eyebrows warningly. "Just ask yourself if you really want to know before you ask them." 

Geralt sat up. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare feet to the floorboards and rubbed his shackle-chafed wrists. He rubbed his collar-chafed throat.

"Jaskier..." he said, running his hands over his knees. 

"I'll tell you, if you want to know. But you probably don't." 

Geralt stood. His hair was still braided but messy from sleep and his trousers, minus their belt and partially unbuttoned, hung perilously low down on his hips. Jaskier could see more than just the start of the trail of dark hair that led down between his thighs, to the base of his cock. He wrenched his gaze back up.

"Jaskier..." Geralt said again. 

"And if you don't want to know, that's fine! We don't have to talk about it. Ever. Honestly. I'll be silent as the grave."

Geralt strode across the room with remarkable speed for someone who'd just woken up and plucked himself out of a not terribly comfortable bed. He clamped one hand over Jaskier's mouth. 

"I remember," he said, once Jaskier couldn't interrupt. "You don't need to say anything." He raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Next time, let's not do it with an audience." 

And, when he took his hand away, for once Jaskier didn't say anything at all. At least not for the first four seconds; after that, he narrowed his eyes and said, " _Next time_?"

For a second, he could've sworn Geralt smiled. A second after that, Geralt pushed his trousers down over his hips and let them hit the floor. Another second and he straddled Jaskier's lap on the crappy, creaky armchair and introduced his mouth to his. Jaskier, admittedly somewhat surprised by this turn of events, supposed that did at least answer his question.

It's been a good six months or so since then. They haven't spent all six of those months together - frankly, Jaskier's not sure he could cope with that himself, never mind the fact he's sure that it would test Geralt's somewhat fragile patience. But, tonight, they're together again. And they're definitely not in Boreland, where apparently only some of their potions have the intended effect when given to a witcher because Geralt _definitely_ remembers.

Last night, he knelt on the floor and he sucked Geralt's cock; he's decided to keep the ring that loops through the tip and it clicked against Jaskier's teeth while Geralt's fingers twisted in his hair. Tonight, though, he takes a bottle from his bag and sets it on the table. Geralt raises his eyebrows, but he pours each of them a glass. They drink - Geralt's eyes don't leave him as he throws the stuff back, and Jaskier's heart thumps hard inside his chest. That potion, at least, works on witchers just like everybody else. They both know it does.

He has questions to ask and apparently, surprisingly, Geralt's going to let him ask them. He has questions to ask and Geralt's going to tell the truth, because of what it is that he's just drunk if nothing else. But the fact he drank it in the first place speaks volumes.

Over the years, Geralt's got himself into all kinds of trouble. So has Jaskier. At this point, it's basically inevitable.

This time, though, the trouble might be just the right kind.


End file.
